Background

The heavy grey storm clouds that have hung over the aquamarine ocean slowly disappear as you draw closer to the island. You can see the soft bar of sand in the distance, but the course that the skipper is taking zigzags you back and forth across the waves. It draws closer slowly, and the incessant chatter of the others on the boat grates against your nerves. You are aching to feel the soft sand under your feet and a cold drink in your hand. After all, that’s what these conferences are all about.

Not that you’d ever admit that to anybody back home. MediCorp Conferences are well known amongst the peddlers of pharmaceuticals that you mingle with, and not just for the exciting new medicines that often premiere at these things. There are rumours that there is something spectacular this year, but nobody can tell you exactly what it might be.
The setting for this year’s MedCon is even more intriguing. The idea of a tropical getaway is nothing new, but Ghost Island is so remote that it doesn’t appear on many maps. Your flight took you into the Maldivian capital of Malé before a two-day cruise took you away from civilisation.

You landed in a small port on another anonymous island before being transferred to the speed boat that is now finally bringing you to your destination. All of that for a three-day conference seems excessive, but if the new medicine is that impressive, then it makes sense.

The rest of the people on the boat are a strange mix of sales, advertising and science. You can tell those in sales and advertising by their stories of one-upmanship and the fact that they’ve hit the on-board margaritas hard. The scientists are sat on the edge of the boat, looking nervous and isolated. You move over towards the one who seems most likely to talk.

You introduce yourself to the woman, perhaps in her forties and dressed in a pair of combat shorts and a t-shirt advertising an unknown rock band. She doesn’t say much, not even her name. You push her for more information, and she gets up to leave, obviously finding the pressure uncomfortable. As she does, she turns and fixes you with a piercing glare. “You’re here now. We all are. It doesn’t matter why. It’s Henrik Flagstaff, the big deal. It’ll be a big deal, alright. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. You’ll soon see. Just remember, earthquakes are big, too. It doesn’t make them good.”

With her ominous words nestling in your ears, you move back to the other side of the boat and take a seat next to your small suitcase. The weather is forecast to be hot and humid, so you’ve packed light. You sit back and watch the rest of the scientists for any signs of what’s to come, but they give nothing away, and soon, the boat grinds to a halt against a long wooden pier.

“Off you get,” the captain grumbles, not leaving his post. “If you need picking up, you’ll have to send a message from the comms unit in the tourism centre. Good luck.”
Another portentous message does nothing to calm your nerves, but you seem to be the only one who’s listening. The sales and advertising executives are already staggering down the wooden platform towards the beach and inevitable bar, whilst the scientists are hovering towards the back of the boat, gathering up their luggage.

You put your paranoia down to jet lag and drag your case over the lip of the boat and onto the pier. The wood is dry and brushed with salt. Reed-covered parasols cast welcome shade every couple of feet, but the heat in the open is already unbearable, and there are still a few hours until nightfall. Parrots squawk overhead, swooping through the air until they come to rest in the coconut palms that punctuate the island. Even from here, you can see the tall visitor centre in the middle of the island and a lookout point in the distance. It would surely take less than an hour to cover every square meter on foot, but the layout of wooden buildings, swimming pools and trees gives the illusion of a much bigger paradise.

“They shouldn’t be here,” somebody says, approaching you from behind. You turn and smile at the same scientist that you approached on the boat. “Every living thing on Ghost Island was brought here for this resort. Nothing belongs here. We certainly don’t.”
“What do you mean?” you ask.

She shrugs and picks up her small case. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything. Just be careful and look after yourself.”

Before you can respond, she picks up the pace and heads into the treeline at the end of the pier. You follow as quickly as possible, joining the line of conference attendees snaking out of the glass doors of the tourism centre.

These things never go smoothly, and by the time you reach the check-in desk, they inform you that they have overbooked the resort and you will be sharing a room with one of the other guests. They make it clear that they have upgraded you to a deluxe, ocean-view hut at the rear of the island, but you still leave in a foul mood. When you arrive at your hut, you are dismayed to see that your new roommate has already passed out asleep on the couch. The sleeping situation isn’t as terrible as you feared – the hut is divided into a living area and two separate bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

You throw your case into the larger of the two rooms and change into something more comfortable. A clock, designed in a garish and false tiki style, ticks over to six o’clock. Time for the welcome meeting and a chance to see just who you are stuck here with and what is going on. You make your way to the business centre and take a seat near the back of the auditorium.